


The Holy Dark Was Moving Too

by prairiecrow



Series: One Degree of Separation [9]
Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)
Genre: M/M, Pursuit, Robot POV, Running, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe is running not to save himself, but to spare Allen Hobby the pain of separation from the woman he loves... and as Joe anticipated, this night will likely turn out to be his last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holy Dark Was Moving Too

On the last night of his existence Joe ran as he'd never run before, unencumbered by the organic need to breathe and driven by relentless determination. It was cold and it was raining, neither of which impeded him either, although it made the wet leaves underfoot, half-frozen, into a glazed and unstable surface that glittered in the jolting beams of light that streamed over him from behind, sending his shadow dancing ahead of him against the trees and boulders that comprised the landscape of Colorado. He knew from past experience that the woods were a treacherous place, full of pitfalls to trip the unwary, but he was sure-footed and agile and could see in the dark like a cat — and he was, at the present moment, highly motivated to move as quickly as possible.

He was running away from something — or rather from some _one_. Though he hadn't actually run, at first: when setting out on his journey he'd proceeded more slowly on account of the uneven terrain, at a brisk walk, inspired by the need to put as much distance as possible between himself and the man who had chosen him over a woman of flesh and blood. 

He had, however, left a note of explanation behind: _Dearest Allen…_

That had been three hours, twelve minutes and thirty-seven seconds ago. Now, at 3:12:38, a sharp sound cracked through the rainy darkness, one that he recognized from years spent on mean city streets: a gunshot. Something small and even swifter than he whined past his right ear. He veered away from it, down a little gully and below the level of the headlights, and heard whoops of triumph pursue him along with the roar of three motorcycles that had been chasing him for the last forty-two seconds.

Where were the rest of them? There had been many of them before, on the night that he and David had run together. Perhaps they were following — or perhaps they lay in wait ahead, with their devices calculated to rend and shatter and destroy. Perhaps he was being driven towards them, as he had himself skillfully and persuasively guided past clients into spaces where an amorous approach would be more favourably received.

In the end it did not matter. Nothing mattered except sending Allen safely back to the arms of his beloved, and that could only be accomplished if Joe disappeared. He had heard enough women speak of the agony of having to choose between one desire and another to understand how it tore organic hearts to pieces, and he could not let that happen to Allen. 

He _would_ not let that happen to Allen. The memory of the anguish in the older orga's eyes when he spoke of Pamela Cunningham burned clear and bright in Joe's mind, indelible. Only one thing would erase it now: that which was coming, very soon.

He did not want to remember. But equally intensely, he did not want to forget the clear incisive blue of those eyes, or the eloquent line of that noble mouth in all its moods — or the special curve of those warm lips in moments of intimacy that had once been bestowed upon him alone.

Once, but no longer.

At the bottom of the slope his left foot hit a patch of wickedly icy ground: an orga might well have broken his ankle, or at least sprained it badly enough to be incapacitated. As it was Joe slipped, tumbling forward head-over-heels, but tucked and rolled to his feet again with perfect balance, sprinting onward without pause. 

_I can’t bear to see you suffer, and I won’t stand between you and the woman you love._

And so he had run, knowing from past conversations with Allen that such an action would be unexpected. He was mecha: nothing should have mattered to him aside from fulfilling his inbuilt purpose. That purpose was to do exactly as Allen desired: to fulfill the human's every sexual need, and to provide him with any related counterfeit of emotional interaction he requested. And Joe had done exactly that for two years/eighteen days/one hour/twenty-five minutes/seventeen seconds, until the moment when Allen had fallen asleep in his arms for the last time in a dingy little room at the Sunset Motor Inn, cradling Joe close and breathing softly against the sleek illusion of his hair, pressing a final drowsy kiss to his temple.

_Please don’t look for me._

The memory shone, warm and bright in a way that had nothing to do with ambient light levels. But that past was gone, and the future was looking to be of extremely short duration.

He wanted to forget, forever. He wanted to remember, forever. But as always, the choice had never been his.

He was on level ground again now and picking up speed — but he was pinned once more by the blaze of a headlight, streaming its yellow glare over stones and mud and fallen leaves and branches. He was fast, but not fast enough to outrun a trio of mounted men. They would catch him, and when they did they would destroy him. 

_Forget that I ever belonged to you, and be happy -- that’s all I could ever wish for._

But Allen would be safe. Allen would be happy. That thought resonated between his processing paths and made the anticipation of proximate pain to come entirely secondary.

He wondered if it would be quick, or if they would cut him to pieces slowly, as they had mutilated the six Eve units in Rouge City. Organic ingenuity was limitless when it came to inflicting their hatred upon the mechanisms they had created. 

It did not matter. Nothing mattered except the man whose embrace he had slipped away from, the man he would never see again.

The gully was narrowing rapidly — but at the end of it, 12.4 yards ahead, a crooked yet solid wooden fence still ticked with flakes of white paint was visible in the furthest glow of the headlights, barred the path. It was only 1.2 yards high at its tallest point: tall enough to stop a motorcycle, but easily low enough for Joe to leap. A new set of calculations streamed through his probability generator, with the odds of escape taking a sudden sharp upward tick. He arrowed toward the obstruction, a surge of positive internal feedback lighting up his neuronal pathways: he would, it seemed, be able to remember Allen for at least a little while longer…

The pleasure of the thought, heretical to a creature designed to resist connection in any dimension but the purely physical, did not surprise him. He had been existing with it for so long that it had become, as it were, second nature.

He reached the fence. Mid-stride, without pausing or even slowing down, he laid his right hand atop it to stabilize himself as he went over.

He kicked off from the ground.

Simultaneously, separated by a sliver of time only a mecha's mind could have perceived, two more shots shattered the bitter night.

One bullet flew wide, but the other slammed into Joe's body high on his left shoulder, tearing through cloth and derma and wire substructures beneath to punch out the other side. The impact sent him head-over-heels again, plunging over the fence and down — down — far further than merely a fall to level ground on the other side. He landed hard on his back, damage reports flowing into his cube from his shoulder — but not from anywhere else. He did not, however, have much time to appreciate his good fortune, for the ground itself seemed to be rapidly engulfing him, curling around his limbs and pulling him down into itself.

Such a thing was impossible. But it was nevertheless happening.

 _Has my cube been damaged?_ His face was upturned to the cliff face above, where the rumble of the motorcycles had come to a halt and two human shapes appeared against the harsh sunlight glare of the headlights. He tried to move, to sit up, but the left side of his body was unresponsive — and the earth itself was binding him fast.

Once, on a sunny afternoon fourteen months/two days/seven hours/eleven minutes ago, Allen had told him that humans buried their beloved dead. It had struck Joe as inexplicable, but he had accepted it as simply another example of the many oddnesses that separated their species. Now, his gaze raised to the moonless sky as rain filled his unblinking eyes and flowed over his chilled derma, he wondered: _Is this death?_

Sharply outlined in the merciless yellow light so different from the graceful glow of the moon, one of the human figures — a woman — raised a long gun to her shoulder and levelled it at him as he sank. He scarcely perceived her at all. Only one image filled both his processing paths and sang in every sequencer — his last glimpse of Allen's face, so peaceful in sleep, and destined for joy on the morrow when he returned to the arms of the mortal woman he loved.

_Goodbye forever, my darling…_

Another shot rang out as the earth closed over Joe's face, blotting out everything but the persistence of memory.

THE END


End file.
